


From Here to St Tropez

by EmonyJane



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: AU, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-10
Updated: 2012-09-10
Packaged: 2017-11-13 23:14:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/508763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmonyJane/pseuds/EmonyJane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Warren adjusts his sunglasses, takes a sip of lemonade, watches a few tourists mill past, and smiles. He thinks that maybe he should find some way to send Jonathan a thank you note.</p>
            </blockquote>





	From Here to St Tropez

Warren adjusts his sunglasses, takes a sip of lemonade, watches a few tourists mill past, and smiles. He thinks that maybe he should find some way to send Jonathan a thank you note. He is responsible for this, after all, and it's the kind of thing Warren's mother would want him to do. That in and of itself is enough to ensure that Warren won't do it, never mind not wanting Jonathan to know where he really is, but he still feels a touch of gratitude towards his diminutive ex-friend.

But then, Jonathan was only partially responsible, and then not really in a good way. Things probably would've gone off fine if they'd followed Warren's original plan and stayed in Sunnydale for their last big heist. It was only Jonathan's stupidity that had meant the last minute changes. And Warren isn't even entirely sure that it wasn't really Andrew who left the plans behind when they abandoned the lair. He blames Jonathan though. It seems fairer to blame the guy who isn't here. Or maybe just easier.

It had seemed unlikely that, of everything they'd left in lair, accidentally or otherwise, the Slayer would find their carefully constructed, detailed plans for the robbery of the amusement park funds. But when they realized that the plans had been left, Andrew had - in a remarkably out of character, and as yet un-repeated flash of intelligence - suggested that they abandon the amusement park altogether, and just go some place where there was no Slayer to get involved.

Jonathan and Warren had stared at him for a full ten seconds before responding. Jonathan had rolled his eyes and gone back to rooting through the box he had hurriedly packed as they'd left the old lair. Warren had grinned across the room to where Andrew sat cross-legged on the floor reading one of the comics he'd saved, and Andrew had beamed back like an eager little puppy.

And so the plan changed. Instead of visiting The Bronze to try out the Orbs of Nezzla'khan, they packed the few irreplaceable things they had into the van, drove a few miles up the coast, and picked a new target. A little hacking, a few days checking out the target, and the robbery went off without a hitch, especially not a Slayer-sized one.

The money they'd made was split three ways, and Jonathan had been so relieved to just take his share and get out, he didn't ask any questions. Warren had taken this as an opportunity to short-change him by around a million dollars, and had conveniently forgotten to mention that Andrew had convinced him to sell the Orbs on the black market in LA, making them a further eight million from some law firm Warren had never heard of.

They'd parted ways at LAX. Jonathan hadn't spoken to Warren since they'd arrived in LA the day before, taking a separate hotel room, and Warren had half expected that Jonathan would be gone when he woke up the next morning. It had been a bit of a surprise to see him waiting by the cab they'd called to take them to the airport.

But he was there, and they'd stood together and stared up at the departures board.

"So," Jonathan had asked. "Where are you going to go?"

"Switzerland," Warren had lied. "Swiss bank accounts, diamonds .."

"Ooh," Andrew had broken in. "Cuckoo clocks, chocolate, cheese, the Swiss Army .."

Warren had looked at him. "Neutrality," he'd said, heavily. "Besides, who'd look in Switzerland?"

Jonathan nodded disinterestedly.

"You?" Warren had asked, without a trace of caring.

Jonathan shrugged. "I'm flying out to Spain, but I don't know if I'll stay there."

Warren had grinned emptily and slapped Jonathan on the shoulder just a little harder than was strictly necessary. "Hey, dude, that was the whole point, right? We can go anywhere we want now. No one can tell us what to do."

Jonathan had glared up at him. "Yeah. Great," he'd drawled, shrugging Warren's hand off his shoulder. He turned back to the departures board and eyed a flight to Sydney, Australia. Warren had simply been relieved that Jonathan hadn't been planning to go to Paris, which was his first stop.

They stood in silence for a few minutes, looking up at the board. No one had wanted to be the one to say it, but they'd all known that it was time. The Trio was officially breaking up. Going their separate ways. Artistic differences.

"So," Jonathan had said, at last. He looked up at Warren with a cold hatred that made Warren feel both strong and feeble at the same time. Then he'd turned to Andrew, his glare softening to a kind of wet sympathy. "You sure you .." He'd given a barely perceptible nod in Warren's direction.

Andrew smiled, nodded, and turned to look back up at the board. Jonathan had sighed, then glared up at Warren again. Warren couldn't keep the satisfied smirk off his face that time. It was a victory and he was going to enjoy it. Okay, so it hadn't exactly been fairly achieved, but what victory was? Andrew and Jonathan had been friends for years, maybe their whole lives, but Andrew had chosen to follow Warren. And Jonathan hated it.

As Jonathan had picked up his case, Andrew turned back, eyes widening as if he'd only just realized that Jonathan was going to leave. "You'll write, yeah?" he'd said, smiling. "From Spain? But .. not in Spanish, 'cause I won't understand."

Jonathan smiled. "Yeah, I will." Then he'd sighed and walked away.

Andrew had still been smiling at Jonathan's retreating form when he'd asked Warren how much they'd got from selling the Orbs, and where they were really going. Warren had touched his elbow gently and led him towards their check-in desk.

That was almost a year ago now. Warren had fully intended to dump Andrew at Charles De Gaulle and carry on to the Med without him. To just tell him to go sit somewhere and wait. Eventually Andrew would realize that Warren wasn't coming back. He'd be heartbroken, probably cry, not know what to do. Lost and alone in Paris. He'd probably be mugged pretty soon, loose everything, end up at the US Embassy - assuming he had even that much sense - begging to be sent home and thrown in prison. Warren didn't care about that, because Warren looked after one person and one person alone, and that one person was Warren.

But Paris had been much larger than Warren imagined, scary and new and strange. It didn't help that neither of them spoke a word of French. Andrew had refused to move more than five centimeters from Warren's side once they'd got off the plane, and Warren had found it oddly comforting. It was easier to pretend he was confident and sure when he had Andrew to play the role for, and so they'd ended up in a four star hotel in central Paris, with a newly acquired phrase book, a French dictionary, and several million dollars.

Warren had decided that this was not a problem. He'd just modify the plan slightly. He'd wait until morning, when Paris wasn't quite so new, then he'd tell Andrew to stay in the hotel while he went out for a bit. Same situation, different location. It would still work.

But that night, in the dark, Warren had been scared and unsure, wondering not for the first time just how the fuck his life had gotten this insane. He'd reached over, pulled Andrew into his arms, and felt better knowing that there was one thing here that he knew, one thing he understood, one thing he was sure wouldn't suddenly change.

Morning had come, and they'd gone out together, wandering around Paris, talking about nothing, and just being for a while. Andrew had bought a couple of disposable cameras in a tourist-filled shop outside a museum, and insisted on taking pictures of everything. It'd been an odd feeling, not having anything to plan for, not having any terribly important evil schemes to organize. The most pressing thing on Warren's mind was whether to see the Eiffel Tower before or after buying a baguette for lunch.

He'd decided that he'd just leave Andrew behind the next morning. Today was special. Tomorrow he'd go back to normal.

It had been four months and one relocation, down to the sun-drenched French Riviera, later when Warren finally admitted to himself that he wasn't going to leave Andrew the next morning. It started off as something comforting, had become familiar, and ended up comfortable. Not that there aren't times when Warren hates Andrew more than anyone else on the planet and just wants to snap his neck so he'll stop fucking talking. Those times are far less frequent than they used to be, though. Most of the time now Warren is happy to just let Andrew be. He listens when he wants to, and lets Andrew's voice wash over him when he doesn't. He feels calmest when he's touching Andrew - holding his hand, resting a foot in his lap, anything. Just knowing that he's there and isn't going anywhere.

Warren looks around the beach and thinks that, yeah, maybe he should send that thank you note to Jonathan after all. It's mid April, and the tourists are starting to arrive again - Brits turning beachball red under the hot Mediterranean sun, Germans with their towels and joy at being able to practice their English on some nice, friendly Americans, the French who treat Saint Tropez like just another resort, and a few Japanese with video cameras and the best tourist crap Euros can buy.

Warren likes it here. The atmosphere is calm, and the lapping of the waves on the beach, which he can hear from their bedroom when he wakes up each morning, is soothing. Andrew looks better with a tan, especially one that Warren happens to know is an all-over, and he laughs a lot more now.

Warren smiles at a young woman who sends a flirtatious glance his way as she walks down the beach, and wonders if he should be thinking about getting up, following her, chatting, going back to her hotel room. He tells himself that he would, but he's too comfortable here right now. Then he quietly admits to himself that he wouldn't, because it would hurt Andrew. And besides, he doesn't need to. Okay, so he could be here with Jeri Ryan, but he's not, he's here with Andrew, and that's apparently enough to make him happy.

Not that he'd turn Jeri down if she came over and asked him to go for a drink with her, but only for her. Special circumstances.

He wonders who would be on Andrew's List and turns to ask him, but Andrew is engrossed in playing pinball on the laptop, so Warren stores the question away to ask later.

He leans over and rests his head on Andrew's shoulder. "You'll never beat my high score, you know," he says, lazily. "So you might as well give up trying." Christina Aguilera is playing in the background, piped out of a speaker at the little bar down the beach.

"Oh please," Andrew says, not taking his eyes from the screen. "You're just trying to distract me. And you wouldn't be doing that if you didn't think I was getting close to .. aw, crap." The little silver computer-generated ball disappears off the bottom of the screen.

"So it's working then?" Warren asks with a grin.

Andrew scowls gently at him through his two hundred dollar sunglasses, then turns back to the laptop and starts a new game. Warren shuts his eyes and listens to the electronic pings and blips and the gentle hum of the fan.

A few minutes later, when he's almost fallen asleep, Warren hears Andrew make a little sound of discontent, and recognizes the accompanying noise that tells him that once again Andrew has lost the third of his three lives.

"You know the real reason you'll never beat my high scores?" he asks without cracking his eyes open.

"Because I suck at pinball?" Andrew suggests.

"Well," Warren says with a pause, "Yeah. Also, I am a pinball God."

Andrew sighs, shuts the lid of the computer, and puts if down under his sun-lounger. "I guess it gives me something to aim for."

"It's good to have goals in life," Warren agrees.

There's a few minutes of blissful silence, before Andrew speaks again. "I wonder where Jonathan is."

He asks this every couple of weeks, and never seems happy with the answers he gets.

"He's in Spain."

"Do you think he really went to Spain?" Andrew asks. "He wasn't very good at Spanish. And why would he go to Spain anyway?"

Warren pauses. "No, I don't really think he's in Spain," he says, after a while. "I think he's probably .." He stops and thinks. "He could be anywhere."

Andrew sighs.

"You want to find him?" Warren asks, raising his head off Andrew shoulder to look at him. "'Cause we can. If you want to." He's surprised to find that he means it.

Andrew looks at him for a few seconds before shaking his head shyly and leaning over to pick up the laptop again. "No." He looks around, smiles, and reopens pinball. "I like it here."

Warren smiles and catches Andrew's hand. "So do I," he says, leaning over and kissing him.

Nobody cares that two-thirds of Sunnydale's Evil Trio are living it up in a rented villa in Europe thanks to spoils of their crime spree.

And nobody cares that on a sun-lounger on a beach in Saint Tropez, sipping a tall glass of lemonade and watching his high score remain intact, Warren is falling in love.


End file.
